After all the loving and the losing,
the heroes and the pioneers,
the only thing that's left to do
is get another round in at the bar.
- Frank Turner, "I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous"

It's been a long time - years, not months - since Riza Hawkeye called out of the blue and said, "Meet me at this bar." It used to happen pretty often. Not as often as Becca made the same call to Riza, but when they'd been (frequently) single girls in an (occasionally) interesting city with (incessantly) frustrating jobs, the suggestion of putting on cute outfits and having too much to drink at the end of a long week could (reasonably) have come from either of them.

They aren't girls anymore. There have been transfers, promotions, murders, and, most recently, a revolution. They both ended up on the winning side, but Riza landed in the hospital with a knife wound that should have killed her, and she's just getting back in gear. So when Riza calls with an invitation, it's unexpected, but Becca doesn't ask any questions, just takes down the address.

Becca is living out of a suitcase in the Central City barracks, which is some kind of bullshit, because General Grumman has basically moved into the President's mansion. Becca is still part of Grumman's staff, and that mansion has a lot of rooms. She doesn't want to make a fuss about it though, considering the plans she's quietly been making for her own future. It's better this way, but right now she's sharing a cramped room with another young officer. For an exhausted second she wonders if she should just head out to the bar in uniform.

But to tell the truth, Becca doesn't feel that great about the Amestrian Army uniform anymore, even when she's on duty and has to wear it. So she digs in her bag to find a black skirt that hugs her hips, a miraculously unripped pair of stockings, shoes with a little bit of heel, and a lacy bra that does what it can to elevate her small breasts.

She dances over to the mirror to admire the effect, and her face looks a little wan, like maybe she's been working her ass off nonstop and barely sleeping since the country started falling apart. But Becca summons the memory of a brief but (through the rosy glasses of distance) illustrious high school theatrical career. Fake it til you make it, Becca, she thinks. Through sheer force of will (and with a generous assist from drug store cosmetics), she produces a convincing imitation of a lively, vivacious twentysomething (she still is for a few more years) without a care in the world.

She can't find an unwrinkled blouse, though, and she's about to sink onto her bunk in despair. Then it occurs to her that Lieutenant Tyndall is half a size smaller and always remembers to get her laundry done on time. So Becca digs in Louisa's drawer and pulls out a black uniform T-shirt. It fits her just a little too tightly to be comfortable on duty, but makes her boobs look amazing. On the way out the door, she writes, "Thx, L, you're the greatest!" on the mirror with the bright red lipstick she's just applied to her mouth.

When she steps onto the curb in front of the barracks, a wolf whistle sounds behind her. Becca stiffens, ready to ignore whatever asshole is going to give her a hard time about how she's spending her night off. Then someone yells, "Hey Catalina!" and she relaxes because it's Jack Delgado, a warrant officer who serves with her on Grumman's staff. She's worked with him forever, and he's okay. So she says, "Not on your best night, Jackie Boy," and flashes two middle fingers behind her back, dancing them in his direction.

Delgado just laughs. "Got a hot date, Kitty Cat?"

"Try not to be jealous." He's still watching, so she whistles and sticks out her stockinged leg in the direction of a cab. She saw it once in a movie. To her surprise, it works the first time.

Becca gets in the car, and reads out the address she has scrawled on the back of her hand. "Don't wait up!" she calls out the window to her colleague, flipping him the bird one more time to make sure he didn't think she was flirting. On the cab ride, she tries her hair four different ways before deciding to let the long black curls flow wild. It's the right hair for dancing all night and making questionable kissing decisions, like she's still nineteen and never seen a war. Thanks for calling me, Riza, she thinks. I didn't realize how much I needed this.

The cab drops her on a quiet block, no place she recognizes, though this is definitely the address Riza gave her. She's starting to feel nervous so she says, "My friend found this bar, it's super underground. She knows all the cool places." The driver, a middle-aged Liorean man gives a look that assures her he doesn't care about her stupid problems (and why would he?) which makes her feel guilty enough to tip him extra.

There's no name or even a sign visible above the tall broad door, just '759' in filigreed numbers that catch the glitter of a single functioning light. To the left stands an empty theater, with "COMING SOON" (and nothing else) dimly visible on its dark marquee. On the other side, there's an all-night Cretan takeout. Two old men who remind Becca of her grandfathers sit in the dining room, eating noodles and spiced meats by the light of a flickering bulb. If it turns out Riza picked a bar that sucks, Becca will drag her next door and make her pay for food that tastes – well, probably nothing like what Grandma Catalina used to cook, but maybe smells like it a little.

She pushes open the door to the bar, thinking that it's awfully quiet. Quiet but not dark. Bright in fact. House lights on full strength, which makes it clear she's facing the interior of a beautiful if slightly run down building – hardwood floors, high raftered ceilings, a spiral staircase in the corner that runs up to a balconied second floor. Wood panels on the walls alternate with faded tapestries, and on the far end facing her is a wide stage hung with red and gold velvet curtains. There's enough light to show her the potential of the place and suggest its history.

There's also enough to make very very clear that the building is empty. Or, it's empty except for one other person, who is leaning against the tall oak paneled bar. Riza is wearing her out-of-uniform uniform: boots, loose dark trousers, high collared grey jacket, and black turtleneck. Also a smirk, which is a bit unnecessary in Becca's opinion.

"God dammit, Hawkeye. You invite me to see this cool bar you found, you ought to mention that it's empty. I got all dressed up."

"I didn't specify it was in business. You assumed." Still smirking, she says, "You look cute, though." Becca's about to flip her off - it's turning out to be that kind of night – but Riza's voice starts rasping toward the end of the sentence. She moves a hand to her throat, and when she touches the turtleneck's collar, Becca catches a glimpse of white bandage underneath. You can only be so hard on your best friend who's just a month past having her throat cut, and for a second Becca wants to run up and hug her.

But Riza quickly recovers her grin, and if she's not going to mention her condition, it certainly isn't Becca's place. Riza moves behind the bar, and with only the faintest scratch in her voice, says, "It's stocked, if that makes a difference." She pulls a bottle and two tumblers from the shelf behind her. "The selection's a little haphazard but I've tried this whisky before. It goes down pretty easy." Riza drops a few ice cubes from the freezer into her glass, pours an inch or so over them, and raises an eye at Becca.

Whatever transitional phase this establishment is in, it doesn't seem to include stools, so there's no way for Becca to actually sit at the bar. Someone's been working on the lights, though, and left a stepladder out. Becca kicks off her shoes and uses the ladder to climb up on the bar. She crosses her legs primly – a bit of a task given the shortness of her skirt - and slides over toward Riza.

Becca takes the whisky bottle from Riza and examines it as though she's thinking, but the truth is she's never really liked the damn stuff. "As much as I sometimes enjoy proving how tough I am by drinking that crap and pretending it doesn't set my throat on fire. . .well, you know you're tougher than me, and there's no one else here to impress." Leaning over to get a look under the counter, Becca says, "Make me a drink that tastes like candy."

"Coming up." Riza takes a swig from her whisky and puts the second tumbler back on the shelf. She starts searching through the cabinets and refrigerator with a solemn face worthy of the most urgent mission.

"Triple sec..." she mumbles. "Grenadine, limoncello...cherry brandy, not bad, and holy shit, is Arugeon rum even legal?" She grabs a cocktail shaker, drops a handful of ice in and gets to work measuring out the ingredients. She starts to put a cap on the shaker, thinks for a moment, then leans down to the refrigerator again and emerges triumphant. "Pineapple juice!"

"Sugar on the glass?" Becca prompts.

"Naturally."

When Riza hands over the drink, Becca doesn't even try to figure out what color the liquid is, or whether her friend might be punking her. She just clicks the wide, fragile-looking glass against Riza's sturdy one, and they both drink. The sweet concoction hits Becca's tongue, and then she raises a finger and chugs the whole thing.

"I can't believe you did that," says Riza.

"Marry me." Becca, pushes the glass back toward Riza. "Marry me and come make drinks for me always."

Riza takes another sip of her whisky, then looks around as though she's just realized there aren't any chairs. Though she's shorter than Becca, she doesn't bother with the ladder. She sets down the glass, puts her back to the bar, grips the edge of the counter, and pushes up with her shoulders. Getting traction with her uniform boots, she forces her backside up the side of the bar and takes a seat beside Becca.

"Showoff," says Becca.

Riza winces. "Well, I'm not doing it again. So if you want another terrible drink you have to get down and make it yourself." She lifts the whisky bottle as an alternative, and Becca shrugs and holds out her glass. There's probably enough sugar and fruit clinging to the rim to make the stuff palatable. Riza fills Becca's drink, then tops off her own.

They touch glasses again, both take a sip, then put the drinks aside and lean back on their hands. Riza gives another sharp cough, and her face reddens as she touches her throat. Then she smiles, because apparently they still aren't talking about her almost dying. Becca leans over and puts her ear on Riza's shoulder.

"So what do you think of this place?" Riza asks.

Becca yawns and looks across the room at the stage. "It's got definite possibilities. Get new fabric to match those curtains. Polish the wood, replace the lights in that fabulous old chandelier. Put in some tables up front, a piano and a hot little jazz band in that corner –" She points. "Find somebody who knows how to book acts and you got the best little cabaret in Central City. A quiet block heats up, the theater next door re-opens, you do before and after parties for all the shows." Becca rubs her fingers together. "License to print money."

"I like your ideas," Riza says. "I wish to subscribe to your newsletter."

"Why?" Becca she pats Riza's blonde hair where it curls under her trademark barrette. "You want us to quit the Army and buy a bar?" She laughs. "Grumman's promising combat bonuses to everybody who fought on his side, and between that and the lump payout when I give up my commission, I might be able to afford a bicycle."

Riza gives a thin smile. "I'm not quitting. I'm in this for the long haul. In a weird way, the homunculi helped by attacking when they did. We never dreamed we'd come this far this fast, but the timetable was pushed up significantly."

The matter of fact way Riza says "we" jars Becca a little bit, because it clearly doesn't mean "you and me" but (as always) "me and Mustang." Becca can't help needling, "Is that what your boss says so he can pretend it's okay that he's not the one setting up shop in the Presidential Palace?" She raises her eyebrows playfully to make it clear she's not seriously arguing about politics, even though she guesses she kind of is.

"What about you, though?" Riza says, and she has no problem, suddenly, looking serious. "You work directly for the President now. Why aren't you happier about it? Why aren't you telling me you're in it for the long haul?"

"I never was, though." Becca looks down at her fingernails, carefully buffed and polished, not because anybody cares but because it gives her a little hint of order and control. "You know that. I joined up to prove I could, to learn some job skills maybe. I was going to muster out as soon as I found somebody to have babies with."

She can almost hear Riza's eyes roll. "You could have found plenty of husbands by now."

Becca's had the 'Why aren't you married yet?' argument with her mother often enough. She doesn't want to have it with Riza. Though possibly for opposite reasons. So she says, "Fine, I like the work. Sometimes. I'm okay with the work, anyway. But the only part of working for this Army that I can actually be proud of is helping to tear the whole thing down. And that was just by accident."

"Hardly an accident," Riza says. "You were in the middle of everything."

"Because I was working for Grumman, and Grumman ended up siding with Mustang. Did you guys even expect that to happen?"

"We –" She hesitates. "We thought there was a decent chance."

"But you didn't know. Do you even know what his agenda is now, as President? Because I'm not sure I do, and I'm on his staff. Meanwhile, your boss is going to get a general's stripes out of this, but anybody who's paying attention knows he wants the top spot for himself. What happens the first time Grumman makes a decision Mustang doesn't like? Or the second? Or the fiftieth?"

Riza doesn't meet Becca's eyes but picks up her drink, takes a long sip, then sets it down. "We want a democracy," Riza says quietly.

"That's a pretty word. You know what I want? A job where I'm not going to end up having to fight my best friend. And don't you dare–" She points a warning finger at Riza. "Offer me a position on Mustang's staff. I don't want that. I want to take my chances as a – as a –"

She has trouble with the word, for some reason, and Riza supplies, "Civilian?"

Becca has to bite back a smile. When they were in the Academy together, people used to say they finished each other's sentences. At least that hasn't changed. The thought relaxes her, and she says, "I'll just muster out and get my bicycle."

"You'd make an excellent bicycle messenger," Riza says, and it's the return of the famous Hawkeye deadpan that tells Becca the tension has passed. "But if you want to consider other possibilities…" She stops and holds up a hand, as the front door swings open.

A woman's voice travels toward them, low and husky, like a lifetime's worth of cigarette smoke. "Are you in there, Elizabeth?"

Before Becca can wonder who Elizabeth is, Riza says, "Yes, ma'am! Would you like to come meet my friend?"

The newcomer shuffles toward them, a substantial woman with iron grey streaks in her black hair. She places a bottle of champagne on the bar beside them and sizes both women up for a moment, causing Becca to fidget and pull the short skirt further down her knees. Not that it really helps.

"Make yourselves at home," the woman rasps, but then she tilts her head at Riza (Elizabeth?) and her expression softens into an almost-smile. She pulls a cigarette from her enormous handbag, lights it and takes her drag before looking back up at them. "Is this the famous Lieutenant Catalina?"

"Becca's fine," Becca says, deciding she'd rather the woman not invent a first name for her.

Riza says, "Becca, this is . . .Madame Christmas."

"Call me Chris."

"Chris –" Becca rouses herself from confusion and manages to say the first thing that comes to her mind. "Your coat is amazing!" This is true. It's long, a deep velvet purple, with a trim of – imitation? – white fur.

"I told you," Riza says solemnly, "that Lieutenant Catalina was a woman of good taste and discernment."

"Yes," Becca agrees, because it seems like a thing to agree with, although at the moment she's mostly wondering how rude it would be to rub her hands over the trim of that coat. (Very rude, Becca's actually-quite-civilized upbringing tells her, but she can't quite stop thinking about it).

"So." Chris nods toward the champagne. "Is this an occasion for celebration?"

"We actually hadn't got to that part yet," Riza says.

Becca peers at Chris. "Are you buying this bar?"

Chris's laugh is as gruff and low as her voice, but there's a surprising music in it. "That's a complicated question. I used to have a bar, a few blocks downtown. Not nearly as respectable of a location. But with the - what are we calling them? - the disturbances last month. It got blown up a little bit."

"That was your bar?" Becca is starting to put it together.

Chris shakes her head. "I don't blame the boy. The boy always means well, and I knew what I was signing up for when I . . .when I never shut a door in his face, I suppose. But he did say he'd see about getting me another one. Well, young lady, I'm going to check the stockroom and you just have another drink with Elizabeth and you think about it."

Becca nods, and stares after Chris as she walks toward the back of the bar. "What am I thinking about?" Becca says quietly to Riza. Becca sits up, pulls away, and stares at her friend. "I should have realized earlier. This is a Mustang thing, isn't it?"

Riza looks genuinely lost for a second, although Becca doesn't think it was that strange of an assumption. Then Riza shakes her head and says, "Of course, it's a Mustang thing. What other kind of thing would it be?"

"Listen, I'm sorry. Devoting your life to the office is one thing. So is being part of his little revolution. But since when does he have you doing real estate deals for him when you're off the clock?" She looks around, warily. "Is he here?"

"Playing chess with President Grumman, I believe." Riza taps the bar, then drains the last of the whisky from her glass. "Those guys get so competitive, it's not any fun. I'm getting the better end of the deal by coming here."

"Well, fine but – why is this your job? Doesn't he have lawyers or whatever?"

"It's not so much that it's my job as that I happened to know the right person."

"What does this have to do with me?" Becca asks warily.

"Colonel Mustang promised to buy Madame a new bar. Which she more than deserves, for all kinds of reasons. But he's got a political career to think about, and it's not necessarily a good idea for his name to be on this place. Legally speaking. For that matter, it's not such a great idea for Chris's name to be on this. Some of her past business enterprises, weren't necessarily as . . . "

"Legal?"

"I was going to say 'reputable'. But you get the idea."

"So who does own this bar?"

"I heard a rumor it was in the name of a holding company based in New Optain. You have family in New Optain?"

"I had a great uncle. He died when I was in school, though."

"Wasn't he in the mining business? I heard a rumor he left you some shares."

"A little bit, I guess?"

"It's just a rumor. Like, if you came into some money, enough to buy a nice chunk of property in Central City. That might be where people would say it came from."

Becca's eyes narrow. "Riza? Do I own this bar?"

Riza avoids meeting Becca's gaze as she pours herself another couple fingers of whisky. She drinks, licks her lips and starts to speak.

"If you say you heard a rumor one more time, I swear to God."

"All right." Riza pulls her feet up under her and swivels to face Becca. "I'm sorry. You deserve a straight answer. Remember I've been talking to Roy – to the Colonel - all day." She clears her throat. "He told me Chris needs a clean name to put on the bar. A civilian name, but someone we can trust. I said you'd not only do it, you'd like it. You'd want to be involved. You'd be good at it. Which, since his – since Chris will be thinking about retirement in a few years, is absolutely ideal. Face it, I don't know anybody better at bars than you are. Even if -" She flicks the top of Becca's glass with her index finger "- your taste in drinks is on the questionable side. Nobody's perfect."

Becca let herself think about it. Night after night, lights and music and people and it would be her job. Maybe she could even get a fabulous coat ..."Riza," she said. "How could you have planned all this? Before tonight you didn't even know I wanted to be a civilian."

"We took a guess – that is, I took a guess. I'm the one who knows you. I thought you might feel - well, basically, how you told me you felt. I thought you might feel that way. And as lucrative as the wonderful world of bike messengerhood must be…"

Becca looks toward the stage. This could be a really beautiful goddamn bar.

Just then, Madame Christmas emerges from the stockroom, carrying two cases of bottled beer stacked on top of each other. "We don't have any kegs yet. Do you think this will be enough?"

"Maybe?" Riza says doubtfully. She looks at Becca. "I should have mentioned. Havoc and Breda will be here soon. And I asked Fuery. And Sheska and Ross."

"So this really is a party?" Becca asks. "You should have mentioned."

"It might even be a celebration," Chris says. "If we're ready to close a certain business deal."

There's a moment of silence as they both look at Becca, and part of her wants to bask in the power of her choice. But there's never any question that she'll say yes. Finally, she smiles and picks up the champagne. "What else am I going to say? I'm in."

Riza pumps her fist. "Yes!"

"Of course, I have a lot of questions. First of all – are there any stools back there?"

"If you two want to help me move them," Chris answers.

"I suppose," Becca sighs, and the rum goes to her head a bit as she slides off the counter. "Before I sign anything, though. You do have a lawyer. Right?"

"We can work it all out," Chris assures her. "There's no rush.

"All right, then. Before we do anything hasty." Becca leans back against Riza and smiles up at her. "Mix me another drink?"